


Guaranine

by orphan_account



Category: Big Bang (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, LosingInterest - 2017 Old Archive, Other, Wordcount: 100-500, no mention of names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-22 16:08:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14312343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: On the tip of his tongue is bittersweet. Why a taste?





	Guaranine

On the tip of his tongue is bittersweet. There is no recollection of places and events, only the taste in his mouth exploding into a sensation he doesn’t know a name of. It’s not even a word, just an ache pushing inside his veins as if it’s aching to be remembered. But he can’t find any reminiscence of its existence, not in his memory, not in what’s remained of him. No identity, no flashback, no clue. Nothing.

He can’t bring himself to ask because the more he tries, the less he can feel. The sweetness –softness –of whatever _it_ is threatening to leave by each wound they explain to him. By the sixth scar they told him, the taste is faint, only a ghost under a light and his head spins for clutching into something he isn’t even sure ever a part of him. It must be something important though, human instinct only clutch onto something that mean a lot to them, right?

_Why a taste?_

Panic bubbles in his chest momentarily until he finds the remaining bitterness in between his crooked teeth, a treasure he can’t remember hiding. The feeling is nostalgic instead of tragedy, the irony is clear as a day. He had set free his beliefs for something that’s not even an image, not a concept but _this_ –whatever this is –is tethering him slowly back into life he doesn’t even know he wants.

_Where does it come from?_

Maybe someplace he used to be in? Maybe a house. A home, if he was lucky. Perhaps a someone. An unfortunate someone who shared a life with him. Then why can’t he see any face behind his eyelids? Was it really meant to be forgotten? Was this –him crawling back into dull ache in his head, cannot feel his right hand, people rushing by his side, blood coating his shirt –meant to be a salvation?

_What is it?_

A name would be great. Anything would be great, to be honest. Suddenly he dislikes not being able to grip onto the past.

_Who am I?_

They shower him with _sorry_ s. His heart is drown in catastrophe, eulogies are said as apologies. He tilts his head to the side, gasping at the view of another person that’s not them. A person, a strangely familiar man, whose eyes are closed, had been separated from his soul. The taste comes back as sour of regrets, pungent of rage, salt of loneliness. The taste feels like smoke, like old bottle of wine, like playful bickering, like friendship, like companion…like life. The taste _tastes_ like love.

_Who are you?_


End file.
